Regrets
by sparklyscorpion
Summary: Christine is dead, but Raoul is not the only one who mourns her passing. A former rival for her affection pays his last respects.


_Author's note: The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux; this particular version belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber._

* * *

He hasn't traveled to the cemetery at Perros-Guirec for several years, but he remembers the way well. His mother is buried here, and although they had never been close, he has visited her final resting place a few times. He is growing old, too old to spend his days hating people who are long dead; besides, he no longer blames her for being unable to love him.

But he is not here today to stand over his mother's tombstone. He wants to pay his respects to someone else.

He finds the grave he is looking for easily. In a cemetery full of enormous memorials dedicated to the dead, hers is the most magnificent. The sculpted angel that perches on a slab of marble, her slender hands delicately folded in prayer, is so lifelike that he would not be surprised if the angel's wings started to flutter. It is a beautiful monument, but he doesn't think that the woman it honors would like it very much. She had been such a simple girl in life, and he can still remember how her face had flushed a deep shade of red whenever she'd accidentally drawn attention to herself.

Pulling his overcoat tighter around his body, he kneels before the marker and brushes his gloved fingers across the simple dedication.

_Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny - Beloved Wife and Mother_

A wreath of fresh roses is propped against the base of the stone, evidence that her husband has been here recently. If the rumors are true, and he thinks they likely are, the vicomte spends quite a bit of time in the cemetery, even though it has been nearly three years since Christine's untimely death. The boy's grief is obviously still fresh. He understands that.

He's passed by de Chagny a couple of times in the streets – never by design, always by accident – and he has noticed that the man's formerly young features are now drawn and haggard. The vicomte has aged decades in the span of only three years. He understands that, too. If people could look beneath the mask that he always wears, they would see a mirror of de Chagny's pain scrawled across his own features.

The news that Christine had died in childbirth had completely devastated him. Losing her to the boy had been difficult enough – even though she had never truly been _his _to lose at all – but at least she had been happy and alive. Knowing that she is dead… Well, that is unbearable, and probably always will be.

He doesn't blame the man for continuing to mourn her, even though society matrons cluck and protest that it's past time for the vicomte to remarry and give his daughter a mother – a proper one this time, from a proper family with a proper pedigree. He understands better than anyone else just how irreplaceable Christine is.

He almost pities his former rival…

As if Raoul de Chagny had ever been his rival. There had never been any real competition, any real _chance_, for her hand, even before Christine had met the vicomte. He chuckles bitterly to himself as he traces the inscription again, slower this time, his fingers less sure, less steady. There had once been a time, even after de Chagny had crossed Christine's path, when he'd entertained the fanciful notion that she might grow to love him, that she might be able to peer beneath his mask and accept the man she found there. Looking back now, he knows just how foolish, how sentimental and _weak_, he had been. Christine had always had a way of doing that to him.

He still isn't sure why this is true, why she had even drawn his attention in the first place. He'd been at the Opera Populaire for years, and there had been a nearly endless parade of pretty dancers and chorus girls. Christine hadn't been particularly beautiful; oh, she had been far from ugly, but that was true of all of them. But Christine had always been so pale and thin and shy, almost sickly looking with her pinched face and large eyes. Her voice hadn't been the reason, either; he'd noticed her before he'd even known that she could do more than warble.

No, he has no idea what had caused him to want her, but at least he knows why he still can't forget her, why he still can't let her go.

Carefully pulling one of the roses free from the arrangement decorating Christine's gravesite, he turns it over in his hands for a moment before finally tucking it into his lapel. It reminds him of the night of her triumph, her arms full of roses, their cloying scent overwhelming his senses, her smile blinding him. It reminds him of a kiss, two…

The sound of an approaching carriage pulls him from his reverie. He straightens and glances up at the overcast sky. He's never been a religious man, but he finds himself hoping, for Christine's sake, that there is a heaven after all.

As he draws near to the gate, he almost laughs at the irony. It's de Chagny, a bouquet in the man's arms and a little girl tagging along at her father's heels. He pulls up his collar, hoping that he won't be recognized when they pass by one another, but of course he isn't so lucky.

The vicomte nods in his direction, civility at its best. "Good day. Monsieur Reyer, is it? We've met before, briefly, in Paris. My wife was once a member of the chorus…"

Reyer feels his familiar mask of indifference sliding firmly into place, hardening the lines in his face. It's the one that he always presents to the world, the one that he had once hoped – in vain – that Christine would be able to see through, but it is too good, too perfect. He has played the role of annoyed tyrant for so long that he has become the character.

"Yes, Monsieur de Chagny. I remember." He pauses for a moment, glancing down at the girl who is peering at him from behind her father's legs. Dark curly hair, large brown eyes set in a pinched face… It's almost painful to look at the child, and he wonders how de Chagny can stand it. "I heard about what happened. I'm sorry for your loss."

And it's true, Reyer thinks as he tips his hat before continuing towards the train station. He is sorry for de Chagny's loss – but sorrier for his own.

* * *

_Author's note: Surprise, it's Reyer and not Erik. ;) The kiss alluded to in the story is based on several stage Reyers who kiss Christine's hand after Think of Me, when they're both backstage. This is for Allison E.L. Cleckler, since I've owed her a story about Reyer and Christine in the graveyard for ages.  
_


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